Never before seen in Italy

Art in suspense: Karen Sardiscos Trapeze, seen in the Rochester Biennial.

The Venice Biennale, which goes back to 1895,
is the granddaddy of all biennials. To that august artistic pantheon, others
have been added, like the Whitney
Biennial in 1932 --- which focuses on American art --- and in 1962 the Sao Paulo Biennial debuted in Brazil
(although its roots go back another 40 years to the Semana de Arte Moderna). In Kassel, Germany, the Documenta exhibitions have been
presenting the world with what's considered the forefront of art since 1955.
True, the Documenta is not
technically a biennial --- an exhibition that occurs every two years --- since
it happens every five years. But it fits the format as an overview of "what's
out there."

Enter
the new Rochester Biennial at the
Memorial Art Gallery. This Biennial is not to be confused with the biennially
occurring Finger Lakes Exhibition,
which is a juried show where jurors pour over thousands of slides to find work.
A biennial, on the other hand, is an invitational put together by curators who
actually visit artists' studios and see the work in person rather than rely on
a few slides that might not be a true representation of an artistic career.

A
major difference between the Rochester
Biennial and most others is that rather than focusing on a large group of
artists, this exhibition gives us just six. Biennials usually attempt to keep
their fingers on the pulse of the art world.But someone or something is always left
out. Biennials, and exhibitions like them, are therefore often controversial,
and sometimes the politics surrounding them overshadows the exhausting amount
of work that comprises the exhibition in the first place.

The
Rochester Biennial curatorial team in
its introductory statement describes the selection process and then
acknowledges, "the thread that connects all six [artists] is commitment to
excellence." But there's more than that: The use of metaphor is another sinew
that weaves in, around, and throughout the exhibition. Biennial artist Judith Olson Gregory even refers to the four
garments from her Season Series as
"poetic vestments."

The
six artists represented here constitute a variety of media --- the painterly
and sculptural exerting a very strong presence. It is cleverly mixed with
bookmaking in the fresh works made of willow sticks, goldenrod stalks, and wax
string by John McQueen and the subtle glazes marking the surfaces of the
nonfigurative and non-functional ceramics by Anne Currier. But there is no
photography, video, or computer-generated work.

All
the work is well made and, generally, aesthetically pleasing. There really
isn't any work that questions what constitutes a beautiful object or attempts
to defy the category of art in itself. It's safe --- which may not be such a
bad idea for a first attempt.

But
safe does not mean bad. It means the work is not going to push the viewer into
asking any difficult questions. However, that is not meant to imply that the
work included here is simple.

Larry
Kagan's work, for example, is quite complex. A jumble of welded steel is
attached to the wall. As discrete works of art they are interesting, abstract three-dimensional
compositions. Until, that is, one considers the shadows. Or are they shadows?

The
shadows from an otherwise unrecognizable and contorted metal sculpture turn
into extremely recognizable representations once an appropriately placed
spotlight is added: a beach chair, a box, a baby, the Statue of Liberty, a hand
puppet. How is this possible? You keep looking to see if you're being deceived.
But after all is said and done, it is exactly what it is --- a shadow of an
abstract jumble of metal.

This
is the first time Kagan's work is being represented in, shall we say, a
different light. Instead of a single spot above to generate the shadow, there
are now two alternating lights. One gives us a shadow that we expect --- a
non-representational network of various lines --- while the other produces the
disconcertingly "real" images. And in between, when the lights momentarily go
completely dim, we are left with just the sculpture itself, jutting from the
wall in full nonfigurative form.

Educationally,
this is interesting, but it also seems to diminish that instantaneous moment of
incredulity combined with the excitement of discovery. The magic is gone. And
although the artist liked the lighting suggestion, the alteration is all the
more poignant because, as the artist has observed, "we never focus on the
shadows," noticing only when "they are missing --- or when they are
unexpected."

Meanwhile,
Karen Sardisco's works on paper are quietly beautiful meditations that create a
gauze-like depth of biomorphic shapes that float in some kind of ethereal
suspension. Although she claims artists such as Elizabeth Murray, Ana Mendieta,
and Kiki Smith, among others, have influenced her work, there also seems to be
an affinity in spirit and feeling with the drawing and painting of Terry
Winters. Winters, who chose not to show his paintings for the first 10 years of
his career, thought of his work as a private activity. Sardisco's work feels
very much like a private activity as well --- we should be thankful that it has
been made public.

Joy
Adams' painting may be familiar to anyone who saw last year's Finger Lakes Exhibition. Her large
paintings bring together the world of 17th-century Dutch genre painting with
Turneresque landscapes, a touch of surrealism, and a little homespun quirkiness
thrown in for good measure. These well-crafted works vacillate between the
familiar and the downright eerie. G.I.
Bride waits for whom? Does the older bride have never-ending hope for her
man's return or does the skull at the hem of the bride's gown speak of the
folly and absurdity of war or, perhaps, the folly of representation itself?

Certainly,
it was good to see more than one painting by an artist whose work was
previously represented by only one entry in the Finger Lakes Exhibition. And, curatorially, it's "proof" for
viewers of a consistency of vision. However, it was disappointing to see Sally's Folly (2002) --- not because the
painting isn't good or interesting --- but because we saw it already (and
recently). If the point is to provide viewers with the chance to explore an
artist's oeuvre in greater depth,
then perhaps it should be exactly that --- more examples rather than the
favored few. One of the Venice Biennale's first decisions back in 1895 was to
show works that had never before been seen in Italy.

Organizing
a biennial has to be a thankless job. Everybody else thinks they have a better
idea. Eventually, though, about every 12 years or so, after years of
complaints, it seems as if finally, there's some kind of agreement and you hear
everyone saying, "this is the best damn biennial in years."